Fight Another Fight
by Shiny-and-New
Summary: The day before the Cuban Missile Crisis ends, Russia and America have a conversation.


**October 27, 1962**

It was so _warm_. That was all Russia could focus on, even as the world hovered on the edge of a knife. He should have been thinking of strategy, of something to finally crush America in this great game they were playing using the world as a board. He should have been thinking of obliteration, of nuclear bombs falling like rain across Moscow and Washington D.C.

But there was sand under his boots, and the cool breeze brought the scent of salt from the ocean. Birds called to each other, high and cheerful and completely oblivious to the looming end times. Russia felt a smile tilt up the corners of his mouth. Perhaps Cuba would let him stay at his house? Russia would rather die someplace like this then back home, where the cold seemed to follow him everywhere now.

America was ahead of him on the beach, facing away with his hands in his pockets. Under normal circumstances, Russia would have assumed that this was more of America's showmanship, pretending to be so nonchalant that he didn't even need to look at his enemy. But at the moment, Russia thought that perhaps America was doing the same thing he was. They might as well take in beauty of the world before they burned it all.

"Privyet, comrade," Russia said, coming to stand shoulder to shoulder with America.

"Don't do that fucking Commie-speak when you're in my country," America snapped, and Russia just barely restrained a giggle. Ah, so they were both feeling the strain. Russia wondered if America had a headache too, a pounding and terrible one that felt like someone had taken his brain and _squeezed_.

"Well, you refused to meet in Cuba, where we could talk like civilized people."

"Your lapdog threatened to, and I quote, 'stab my fat gringo face 600 times' if I set foot on Cuba," America said, and he still hadn't looked at Russia. He gaze was focused on the ocean, in the direction of the island nation ninety miles to the south of them. "So the Florida Keys it was."

"They are lovely," Russia said. There was no harm in admitting something objectively true.

It was enough to make America glance up at Russia, eyes shadowed behind his glasses. "Thanks. I come down here during the winter. 's nice."

The hostility that came so naturally to them now had faded into something far more awkward. They both stared out at the waves, listening to the sound of helicopters in the distance. Far above them, U2 spy planes circled. Both their governments were watching, a cadre of spies and aides doubtlessly sending minute-by-minute descriptions of Russia and America staring at the ocean as the sun sank beneath it.

Russia wished he could have ignored them entirely. They were like fleas, intruding on his game with America. Granted, the game had long since stopped being fun in any way, but still. It was _his_ game. Their governments brought a thousand complications with them, missiles and submarines and satellites and a billion people all hurtling towards absolute destruction.

Russia just wanted to be allowed to punch America without ending the world. Was that really so much to ask?

"You shot down my plane," America said, and as close as they were, Russia could see the muscles in his jaw clenching.

"You dropped depth charges on my submarine," Russia responded, his voice light and sing-song. "That is an act of war."

"They're both acts of war," America said, surprising Russia by agreeing instead of puffing himself up like an angry chicken. He was picking at a loose string on the collar of his bomber jacket, and Russia had a sudden flash of memory of America, bright and smiling and carefree amidst the horrors of war. How long had it been since America had been that effortlessly happy? "We decided to pretend the planes being shot down were accidents, since you guys can't aim for shit anyway."

"We concluded that with your inferior technology, you were likely unaware that our submarine was beneath you," Russia said

"They don't want this war to happen," America said flatly. "It's all sound and fury, but no one wants it. Not really, not when the price would be so high."

"Goodness, a literary reference," Russia said, smiling beatifically. "You must truly be in a state."

"Jesus, do you care at all?" America said, rounding on him with his fists raised and his teeth drawn back into a snarl. Russia laughed. "Do you give a damn at all that we're all about to die? Do you want to die?"

"Amerika, Amerika," Russia said, cooing his name like he was chastising a silly child. "I don't want to die. I am not an idiot, like you." Russia caught America's fist before it could hit his jaw. He didn't take offense. "But you of all people should know that some things cannot be stopped once they've started."

America stared up at him, not trying to yank his fist away. His voice did not sound nearly as sure as Russia wished it was when he said, "Of course we can stop a war, don't be dumb."

"Wars are monsters, alive and separate from us," Russia said, and he heard the dreamy tone in his own voice. "None of us wanted the Great War, but it wanted to be born. They never stop until they have enough blood to glut themselves."

Blood in the streets, blood on palace walls. That was the way of things, no matter how much he might want to stop it. No matter how much he wanted to take his people in his hands and hold them and _shake them_ until they stopped all of this-

"No," America said, interrupting Russia's grim train of thought. He lowered his fist, not bothering to shake Russia's hand off. "No, shut up and stop being so pessimistic. We can stop this."

"What if we can't?" Russia asked, and he felt something burning at the back of his eyes. "You are young, little America. You have never been dragged kicking and screaming into a war you never wanted."

America lowered his head, his bangs falling over his eyes and blocking them from Russia's gaze. He still hadn't bothered to let go of America's hand, and Russia wondered what the watching humans must be making of all of this.

"Maybe we can't stop it from happening," America said, and something in Russia broke even as another part of him soared. America admitting he was fallible and not all-powerful, what a sight to see. Then he looked up, his eyes blazing, and Russia felt caught like a rabbit in a snare. "But I'll be damned if I let it happen without a fight. I'm _not_ going to end the world over fucking Cuba."

Russia was struck suddenly with a memory of a much younger America grinning up at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

_-"England will not like you trading with me, little one," he said, because the last thing he wanted was to watch this bright creature immolate himself. "Empires are greedy when it comes to their colonies."_

America had just smiled, and it was like standing under the sun. "What England doesn't know won't hurt him at all."

That day in 1763 had been the moment Russia realized just how deep America's defiance ran, and it had been a comfort and a curse ever since. Looking at him now, Russia felt something vaguely like hope start to flare in his heart, for the first time in weeks.

Maybe this would not be the end. Maybe Russia's wisdom and America's pigheadedness would be enough.

"The world expects a war," was all that he said, though. Russia knew the danger of too much optimism.

"We'll give the world a hundred wars if that's what they want," America said, tilting his chin up. "But not this war."

"You are very arrogant," Russia said, and he was not unaware that it sounded like a compliment.

America's smile was bright and a little crooked as he answered, "We're superpowers. The world is ours. I think I can afford it, y'know?"

Russia smiled, the first real smile in…well, in a very long time. "Smug capitalist pig-dog."

America laughed. "Commie bastard. Let's not die today?"

"I have much better things to be doing, it is true."

They both stared up at the sky, Venus glowing bright as the sun sank lower and lower beneath the horizon. It stained the world in yellow and orange, but not red. No red to be found. Russia chose to take it as a sign.

His voice was a little higher than normal when he said, "I'll tell them to take the missiles out of Cuba."

"Cuba won't be happy," America said, staring out across the ocean.

"Cuba is never happy. But you must leave him alone. No invasions, no bombing him to death."

America tilted his head, still staring at some point in the ocean only he could see before he finally blinked and looked back at Russia. "Fine. I'll leave the jerk alone."

"And get your missiles out of Turkey." He did not like knowing they were down there, pointing at him night and day.

"_Fine_," America said, as if it was a great imposition. But that was all he said. They both stood there in silence, staring up at the sky as it darkened and the stars began appearing.

"I still don't know that my government will listen."

"Neither do I. But we can go down swinging."

Russia tsked. "You talk about violence even when negotiating peace."

"And you're huge and hulking and scary even when you're trying not to be, but I was nice enough not to say anything." America smiled, and it was something close to his old smile. "I'm going up there, you know. Into space."

Russia snorted. "Not if I get there first."

"We can't blow up the world until one of us lands on the moon," America said, and Russia was honestly not sure if he was joking or not.

Nonetheless, he reached out his hand and shook America's. "Deal."


End file.
